


Tatters

by outlier



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Kink Meme, Political Debate as Foreplay, Rough Sex, Sister/Sister Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:55:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24183988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outlier/pseuds/outlier
Summary: Bo-Katan will humor her sister as Satine talks peace, but she knows the truth. Might prevails. Even Satine bows before it.
Relationships: Bo-Katan Kryze/Satine Kryze
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25
Collections: The First Annual Femslash Kink Exchange 2020





	Tatters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [indigo_inks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_inks/gifts).



> I'm not really sure how to judge timelines and ages in the greater Star Wars universe, but this is set before the first Mandalorian civil war, when Bo-Katan and Satine are younger and their family is still intact.

“You should wash.”

When Satine looked away, Bo-Katan couldn’t tell if it was with true disgust or with the show of it. Either way, there was something fulfilling about standing amongst Satine’s pretty clothes, studiously tidy furniture, and carefully organized jewelry and head pieces while she was slick with sweat, in her dirty armor and straight from training. Her sister had no doubt spent the morning at their mother’s side, learning how to sharpen her tongue so that she could wield words like weapons. Bo-Katan preferred real weapons, blades smithed from beskar and blasters dialed in until they were fit for her hand alone. Real weapons killed quickly, without nuance or games, unlike words. Words slashed, drew blood, and retreated, waiting with a patience Bo-Katan didn’t have for the wounds to accumulate until the target was drained.

Bo-Katan smirked, mostly because she knew it tugged at Satine’s sometimes short temper. “From what I know of your aspirations, sister, you should learn how to get your hands dirty.” It was a well-tread argument, but one Bo-Katan had yet to tire of. At the very least, it was a quick way to have Satine on her feet, eyes blazing and cheeks flushed with anger. She tugged on the fingers of her gloves, working them free. Ignoring Satine, though she didn’t have to see her to know the way she looked with arguments bubbling up in her chest. “Or do you think peace comes without bloodshed?”

When she’d entered, Satine had been putting away the last of her adornments. She’d shed her outer robe and was in the thin sheath beneath, allowing herself a comfort in her chambers that she never allowed herself out of them. Each layer was an armor of its own, not unlike the suit Bo-Katan was earning one achievement at a time. Unlike her own, Satine’s would be polish, glamour, and accomplishment, a statement of strength made of soft fabric and not hard beskar.

“You think me naïve.” Satine’s hair was still up in the elaborate style she’d crafted as one of her many weapons, though wisps had come free. They were white blonde against the red of her cheeks, making her look far fiercer, Bo-Katan thought, than any imposing headdress could do. “But you think there’s nothing that can’t be gunned down or blown up or shot. Those ways are easy. If you want to test yourself with true work, put away your weapons and build.”

“So many cycles, and yet you still make the same, tired arguments.” She undid the buckles of her gauntlets as she walked, closing the distance between them with the slow, easy gait of a confident predator. As she dropped them on Satine’s desk, on the parchment there that Satine had filled with soft, flowing handwriting laying out her noble plans for the future of Mandalore, Satine hissed in anger.

“So many cycles, and you still think glorious death in battle is better than the work of building a life worth living for all of the citizens in the system.”

“But that’s why I train,” Bo-Katan said, close enough so that she could wrap a fist in the collar of Satine’s sheath. Satine gasped when she did, eyes going wide, as if this outcome hadn’t been a foregone conclusion since the moment Bo-Katan appeared at her door. “So you will have to look me in the eye once the battle is won and admit that I was right.”

It was quick work to hook her hands under Satine’s thighs and pull her up, until Satine had no choice but to wrap her legs around Bo-Katan’s waist and clutch onto her shoulders lest they both topple over. And Satine might complain – would complain – when Bo-Katan left smudges of soot from deflected blaster shots and streaks of oil from the whetstone she’d used to sharpen her dagger on her pretty, soft sheath and lush, thick coverlet, but for all of Satine’s faith in words, she still faltered in the face of action.

“Won’t you be pretty—” Bo-Katan continued, taking them to the bed in two long steps—“on your knees, with thanks on your tongue. Make me believe it, and maybe I’ll let you have me on your tongue as well.”

Satine blushed. She’d chide Bo-Katan for being crude if she had the chance, so Bo-Katan didn’t let her. She kissed her hard, the way Satine pretended she didn’t like. Satine had convinced herself she wanted a love that was slow and courtly, full of gestures laden with hidden meaning and longing that built until it was a constant. The kind of drawn-out longing that settled into a noble sort of pain, the kind written about in books that romanticized such nonsense. If that were really true, Bo-Katan thought, then Satine wouldn’t be squirming beneath her, fingers scrabbling at the steel of her pauldron. She wouldn’t have arched her hips when Bo-Katan tugged impatiently at the hem of her sheath, or bitten down so hard on Bo-Katan’s lower lip that she nearly drew blood when fingers found her cunt. She wouldn’t have climbed into bed with Bo-Katan in the first place, young, with curious fingers and curious lips and a curious mouth, and given and taken innocence that should never have been shared. For all Satine thought she favored subtlety, it was might that left her quivering.

Her armor would bruise her sister’s pretty, pale skin. She’d gone too long unmarked, away on a trip with their mother to the Mandalore capital to soak in petty political squabbling and closed-door power brokering. In her absence, Bo-Katan had trained. She’d thought of the many ways she could stain Satine’s flawless sheets and flawless body, and all of the work she’d cause. Satine would frown as she covered up bruises, as she bundled sheets down to the laundry, and tried to hide the scuff of Bo-Katan’s boots on her floor. She’d act like these were inconveniences, trials she had to bear at the hands of a brute, but she’d do them with the warmth of arousal building between her legs. Satine’s lips might form pretty lies, but her body told the truth.

“Did you miss me as much as I missed you?” Bo-Katan never meant to be weak, but Satine seemed to draw these sorts of things from her like a bucket from a well. Satine’s nails had dug into the back of her neck and her cunt was tight and wet around three fingers. She was meeting each thrust with her hips as if it wasn’t enough, the strong thrust of Bo-Katan’s arm. Her hair was loose around her face, wild now, undone by the way her head thrashed against the bed as Bo-Katan fucked her.

Satine fisted a hand in Bo-Katan’s hair though it was still sweaty from the training room and pulled hard. Bo-Katan hissed at the pain and arched into her, unforgiving armor leaving bruises on Satine’s hips and thighs. “No,” Satine said, forcing Bo-Katan’s eyes to her own. On anyone else, her expression would have been cruel. On her, it was a dare. “But if you try hard enough, perhaps I’ll miss you next time.”

It got her what she wanted, even as Bo-Katan knew she’d been manipulated into it. Rough hands on her hips, flipping her over, and pulling up so she was on her knees. A hand in her hair, wrapped tight, drawing back with enough strength that Satine had to support herself on her hands, had to arch her back, had to be made pretty and open and pulled tight as a bow. Bo-Katan brought her hand down hard on the curve of Satine’s ass, the hand still wet with her, just to hear the strangled sound of pain/pleasure it bought. Satine had always thought she was smarter, more refined, more sophisticated, with her silver tongue that talked others around to her way of doing things. Bo-Katan wanted to find a better use for that tongue. She thought maybe she’d put Satine on her back when she finished fucking her cunt. She’d kneel over her face, hold Satine’s arms down with her shins, and let her put that clever tongue to a task it deserved.

She’d left a handprint on Satine’s skin, edged in red. The thought of the lies Satine would tell to curious handmaidens made Bo-Katan’s chest swell with a dark sort of pleasure. “As if you will ever find someone who knows you better than I do,” she said, pressing her fingers back into Satine’s cunt. Her sister was wet for her, wet in a way that belied her taunts. So wet that the room was filled with the sound of them, of Bo-Katan fucking her and Satine’s soft, high-pitched cries. She drew free and spanked her again, just as hard as she had the first time, so that the snap of it echoed against the hard stone walls along with Satine’s cry.

Bo-Katan knew she was giving Satine just what she wanted. She knew she’d been baited and goaded, that Satine had done nothing less than put herself on her knees with her prods and manipulations, but it didn’t matter. When Satine sat down at their mother’s side the next morning, adorned and made-up and armored in rich, off-world fabrics, it would be to the ache of Bo-Katan’s hand.

“Beg me,” Bo-Katan said, tightening her grip in Satine’s hair and pulling hard. She found Satine’s clit with her thumb and stroked roughly, the contact incidental paired with the thrust of her fingers.

She saw the anger in the way Satine’s shoulder muscles tightened under her sheath. “Never,” she hissed.

Bo-Katan pulled her hand free and spanked her again and once more. She worked to line her fingers up with the imprint she’d made, wanting to see pink edge into red. She wanted the skin to swell, as if she’d branded her touch into it.

“Beg or I’ll leave you like this.” Bo-Katan slowed, fucking Satine was a lazy sort of indifference. “I’ll leave you spread open and wet and unfulfilled. You can touch yourself, but it won’t be enough. Do you want that, Satine?”

Her sister squirmed, at least as much as she could in the position to which she’d consigned herself. Bo-Katan stilled her fingers, but circled Satine’s clit with her thumb. She imagined Satine’s knees growing red where they chafed against the coverlet and drank in the sight of her rumpled sheath, hiked up around her chest and wet with sweat. Satine was most beautiful when she was angry, when her eyes were narrowed and her mouth set. When she felt Satine start to shiver, so close to orgasm under her touch, she pulled her thumb away.

“Bo-Katan, _please_.”

She knew Satine hadn’t meant to say it. She could tell by the way she stopped moving abruptly, rigid with regret, and the way she’d tried to turn her head as if to take the words back. “I knew you could be a good girl for me,” she purred, just so she could watch Satine stiffen in fury.

One day, if Satine claimed the throne to which she aspired, perhaps she’d sit in it with the memory of this, getting fucked on her hands and knees by a true Mandalorian in warrior’s beskar. Of the way she’d screamed, clenched down tightly over Bo-Katan’s fingers as she came, or the way she’d collapsed to the bed after, breathless and sweat-soaked and limp.

And maybe, Bo-Katan thought, she’d be there, at Satine’s side. Maybe she’d be her sister’s shield in this fruitless quest for peace, the steel behind Satine’s quick tongue.

“Rest,” she said, running her hand down Satine’s slim thigh as Satine quivered into the bedding. She pushed to her feet, ignoring the ache of tired muscles and the sore places where her armor had dug into her flesh. There were always threats to the House of Kryze.

She’d stand guard.


End file.
